


Melancholia

by GoldFrostbite13



Category: Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Established Relationship, Harry as Joel and Draco as Clementine, Heartbreak, Inner Dialogue, LGBTQ+ Themes, Mindbending, Multi, New England, Non-Explicit Sex, Not Canon Compliant, Science Fiction, Set in 2000s, Slow Burn, based off a film, but in reverse, but only slightly - Freeform, niche side ships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:53:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29442927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldFrostbite13/pseuds/GoldFrostbite13
Summary: “You’ve been following me all day.”“Not on purpose, I’ll tell you that much. I don’t make a habit of following attractive strangers.” Harry bites his tongue. Why did I say that? He’s a guy. I don’t find him attractive. Well, maybe objectively. Shut up, he tells himself.Draco’s eyes are liquid copper in the orange light of the passing streetlamps as they meet Harry’s in the rearview mirror. “Perhaps you should make it a habit,” He says.One way to fix a bad breakup is to erase your partner from your mind completely. Draco figures that this is a perfect solution. Harry does not - but what choice does he have? Based loosely off Charlie Kaufman’s 2004 film, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy/Pansy Parkinson, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Justin Finch-Fletchley/Luna Lovegood, Luna Lovegood/Padma Patil
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	1. the boy by the shore

Dawn comes with a scorching headache and the deadening promise of another dreary day. I don’t want to go to work. This is Harry’s first thought, before he opens his eyes, before he throws back the sheets to reveal a body damp with sweat, clad in red silk pajamas. His mouth is full of sand and his temple bears the invisible wounds of one-two-three whiskey shots, but he doesn’t remember drinking. He doesn’t remember last night at all.

The mirror, the closet, out the door to the parking lot – the route that Harry has taken many times before is marred by an ugly gouge in the gray metal of his Toyota, deep and straight in the side. “What…” He mutters, looking around the rows of cars, but there’s no one nearby. He glares at the ostentatiously violet low-rider next to him, which looks suspiciously close. Harry kicks its tire, which is no solution at all, and settles for a murmured “Asshole,” before slamming the damaged door of his car and heading for the train station.

_I didn’t go to the office today,_ He writes, later, sitting on the steps of an abandoned beach house, a tattered journal in his lap. _Took the train to Montauk instead. I don’t know why. I felt terrible this morning – I suppose I needed a break._

It’s a split-second decision, standing on the usual platform, hearing the announcement for the outbound Montauk train, then running off in the other direction. He gets on just as the door closes.

_It’s Valentine’s Day. That doesn’t help._

Winter nips at Harry’s fingers as he calls the administrative office for Ashfell’s police department. “Hey, Penelope. Listen, I can’t come in today. Will you tell Minerva for me? …Yeah, I just don’t feel well…Thanks a lot.”

_Valentine’s Day is a holiday made up to make everyone feel so bad about themselves that they buy masses of stupid trinkets to feel better. Single people spend money on chocolate. Couples spend money on useless, sparkly gifts._

The beach house is painted dark blue, its inhabitants vacated, the white shutters and door still intact. He’s been here many times before, but never has it sagged this much, like a lover weary of arguing.

A face flashes in his mind: freckled cheeks, brown eyes that remind him of a fireplace. _Ginny liked Valentine’s Day. Apart from that, I can’t think of a single flaw in her. She’s reckless, maybe. But so am I._ Harry sighs, looking at the beach. _She loved me._

It’s then that he notices the boy by the shore, standing just where the diamond-gilded ocean meets the flat, snowy sand. At least, he thinks it’s a boy, with short, bubble-gum pink hair and a forest green puffer jacket. He’s gazing out at the sea, just standing and breathing. Harry wonders what he’s thinking, whether he’s ditching work, too. He feels a slight kinship with the boy, which is silly.

The café near the beach has a decent cup of hot chocolate and less-decent booths that make Harry sit up too straight. He bends over his journal again, doodling meaningless things, writing meaningless words. Someone else walks in – Harry spots the pink hair again, and the boy. More of a man, really, but clean-shaven and with an air of sophisticated youth. He slides into a booth facing Harry, just far enough that he can still see his face. The stranger orders a plate of pancakes and a cup of coffee.

Harry watches as the man brings his mug under the table, dumping into it the caramel-colored contents of a tiny glass bottle. The stranger looks up, accidentally meets his eyes. He smirks and raises the mug of coffee in wordless cheers. Harry glances away. _I’m a grown adult with only two friends. I can’t ever seem to make new ones,_ He writes, then thinks to himself, that’s because I’m a shy bastard who has the social skills of a college freshman. 

He manages to stop himself before that train of thought careens into dark places. Harry drinks his hot chocolate too fast, burns his tongue, then realizes that he’d forgotten to take his antidepressants that morning. Fucking hell. 

The pages behind this journal entry have been torn out. Today is apparently the first time he’s written in it for two whole years.

The sky grows brighter in the late morning when Harry finds a bus to take him back to Ashfell. Hands in his pockets, he waits at the stop, a breeze in his hair and gravity drawing his gaze to the ground. Then, something green and pink catches his eye – Oh, great, he thinks, him again. But there’s something not entirely unpleasant about this colorful stranger, who recognizes him, and waves. Harry nods back, wearing an artificial smile, unsure how exactly to approach this man who seems his age and yet infinitely younger.

On the bus, the journal opens in his lap again. This time, Harry draws, the lumpy curves of the forest-colored jacket, the ruffles of the bubblegum hair. The stranger hasn’t met his gaze yet, watching the window instead, as Montauk’s wintry beach turns into the forest and houses en route to the bus’s many destinations.

Then, he stands, and to Harry’s equal horror and happiness of satisfied curiosity, walks down the aisle to join him, leaving only a seat between them.

“Hello,” Says the stranger, and Harry realizes he expected his voice to be higher, but it’s a smooth tenor, with an accent that’s not quite American. His eyes are as grey as clouds. “I’m Draco,” He continues, sticking out a hand gloved in black leather. “I saw you earlier.”

“Yes, I remember,” Harry says, shaking his hand a bit bemusedly. Not many people use handshakes for new acquaintances these days. “I’m Harry.”

“Harry, Harry,” Draco muses. Harry watches his mouth form the syllables, expressive and soft. “A common name, no?”

“I guess.” Should I be offended?  
“At least, I think it is. Truth be told, I’ve never met a Harry. I’m not making fun of you, by the way.” He talks like rain, fast yet soothing. “Christ, I couldn’t do that, could I? Not with a name like Draco.”

“Dragon,” Harry blurts, if only to get a word in edgewise.

Draco’s pale face breaks into a breezy grin. His features are all edges, but the gentleness from his eyes softens them. “Exactly! A nonexistent creature in a dead language. What does that make me, a figment of my own imagination?” He gestures a lot with his hands.

“That’s quite poetic,” Harry comments.

“I’m glad it comes off that way. Sorry for bothering you like this.” A quick change of topic, a rabbit hopping from one bush to another. “I glimpsed you earlier, but also…” Draco shakes his head, thinking, and Harry glimpses the platinum blond of his roots. He’s never met anyone with a natural hair color like that. “I could have sworn I’ve met you, before today.” He snaps his fingers, leather on leather. “Ah! Do you go to The Raven and the Mushroom? On Pitch Avenue?”

Harry instantly recognizes the name of the café. He thinks he used to love it, but he hasn’t been there in a while. Certainly not since Ginny. “Sometimes.”

“I must know you from there, then. I’m the assistant manager,” Draco says with an air of knowingly false superiority.

“You must be rich,” Harry jokes, wide-eyed, and he feels a flood of victory thanks to the well-placed quip when Draco chuckles.

“You’d think so, huh? Alas, I’m stuck in little old Ashfell. If I was rich, I’d go to Paris, probably.”

“Everyone wants to go to Paris.”

“Yes,” Draco agrees, “Everyone does.” He seems slightly disheartened by this, but the moment passes, and he continues, “So, you’re getting off at Ashfell, too? I assumed…”

“Yep.” Harry has been so engaged in the conversation that he’s forgotten the drawing that lies unfinished but recognizable in his lap. He closes it surreptitiously, hoping Draco hadn’t glimpsed the sketch of himself.

“Maybe I’ll see you around again, Harry.”

“Maybe.”

Draco leaves him alone, going back to his seat, but not without another smile that’s half-smirk, as if they now share a secret. Harry feels relieved when he goes, still seeing him as a stranger, but the encounter wasn’t totally worthless. He looks back down at his journal and writes just two sentences below the drawing.

_“A nonexistent creature in a dead language. What does that make me, a figment of my own imagination?”_

∞ ∞ ∞

Red, pink, and white pulses in the windows of every public building in Ashfell. Shiny hearts, sparkly streamers, and paper Cupids decorate the restaurants, hair salons, even the goddamn 7/11. Harry switches from watching the road to glaring at the street more often than he ought to, and he notices that one of the passerby’s hair is not colored by a blinking neon heart as he initially thought. He stops, halfway parked by the sidewalk, and rolls down the passenger window.

“Hey!”

Draco stops, breath misting in the air. He scowls at first, but his face brightens gratifyingly when he recognizes Harry. “Hey! You stalking me or something?”

“Do you need a ride? It’s freezing out there.”

Draco purses his lips and gives an indecisive shiver. “Yeah, all right,” He decides finally, and briskly walks over, sliding into the warmth of the car. “There are less interesting ways to die than being murdered by a stalker,” He says casually.

“I’m not stalking you,” Harry assures him, guiding the Toyota back into motion.

“I dunno,” Draco sighs in mock concern, stripping off his gloves. His hands are as pale as his face. “You’ve been following me all day.”

“Not on purpose, I’ll tell you that much. I don’t make a habit of following attractive strangers.” Harry bites his tongue. Why did I say that? He’s a guy. I don’t find him attractive. Well, maybe objectively. Shut up, he tells himself.

Draco’s eyes are liquid copper in the orange light of the passing streetlamps as they meet Harry’s in the rearview mirror. “Perhaps you _should_ make it a habit,” He says, and before Harry can think of a proper reply, adds, “Take a left, just up here.”

A few beats of silence as the car turns, Harry’s hands flexing against the steering wheel. “Sorry if I was a little overbearing today,” Draco says.

“Overbearing?” Harry’s attention is a bit divided – he hopes Draco didn’t see him blushing when he called him attractive. Something is very wrong about today, but the pink-haired stranger seems to be the only thing right about it.

“I talk about myself a lot, even to people I don’t know,” Draco explains. “It’s a personal flaw I’m working on. I’d like to think I’m not narcissistic, but…oh, there I go again,” He groans.

“I don’t think you’re narcissistic.” Harry keeps his eyes firmly on the road this time, but he can feel Draco looking at him in the glass.

“You don’t know me.”

“Well…it’s okay if you do most of the talking. I’m a better listener, anyway.” Ginny used to go on for hours, and Harry never minded.

“Yes, you are a good listener,” Draco agrees, and Harry allows himself a smile at the compliment. “Take a right – not here, the next one. Wisteria.”

Soon, the gray Toyota slides in front of a narrow apartment building, built of red brick, most of its windows already dark. Draco slips out, straightening his green jacket. He hesitates, the door open, engine idling. “I need to get something,” He blurts, “But don’t leave. I’ll be right back.”

“Erm…” Before Harry can agree, Draco leaves, jogging for the door, quickly letting himself in. Harry closes the car door to keep the heated air from escaping and decides to wait. He shouldn’t be long.

Draco arrives a few minutes later, rosy-cheeked and out of breath. The object in his hand is so small that Harry can’t tell what it is until he opens the car door again.

“Give me your hand,” Draco says, and Harry obliges, dimly registering that it was a command, not a request, that made him move. Draco’s fingers are cold and feather-soft as he takes Harry’s hand, fingertips touching palm. He brings the object to his mouth – a blue marker – and opens it with his teeth. Seven digits appear black on Harry’s brown skin. “Call me when you get home,” orders Draco, letting go of his hand and capping the marker. “My friends don’t call me enough. You have to be different.”

“Friends?” Harry echoes.

“I’d like you to call me,” Draco presses. “I have a proposition for you.”

A proposition. Okay. “Okay. I will,” Harry promises.

“Good. I shall wait eagerly by the telephone,” Draco exclaims dramatically. He slams the door, gives a friendly wave, then promptly bounds back inside.

The short ride home is silent, Harry too busy turning over today’s encounter in his mind to bother turning on the radio. He thought he’d notice a person like Draco in Ashfell – though it may be progressive and diverse for a small town, a man with pink hair and a penchant for making spontaneous friendships would stand out. Although Harry couldn’t be sure Draco had a penchant for spontaneous friendship. He just met the guy. Perhaps he had no other friends and normally preferred the company of pet rocks.

The apartment is dimmer than Harry left it. There’s a few wineglasses, plates, and forks awaiting attention in the sink, but he heads straight for the phone, mounted on a scrap of wall just before the space he deems a bedroom. By the light of a lamp, Harry reads the numbers and tries to think of what to say. Hello would be a good start. He should ask about the proposition, though knowing Draco, he’ll mention it without being prompted. Harry’s brain stutters at the thought. Knowing Draco? He doesn’t know Draco.

But Harry does know himself as an expert of overthinking, so he dials the number before he can change his mind about calling.

“Evening, Harry.”

“Hi.”

“So, my proposition.” Harry grins in spite of himself; he was right. “You know the Charles River?”

“In Boston? Sure, I do.”

“It’s frozen this time of year. Got to be a couple meters thick, at least.” Harry’s mouth twitches at “meters”; perhaps he’s not the only non-native stuck in this cold outpost of America. “It’s still and beautiful and quiet, and you can see the stars much better there. So?”

“So, what?”

Draco laughs, teasing. “So…” He drawls the word, and it slides like honey from the receiver. “Do you want to go there with me tomorrow night?”

A gesture of friendship, or perhaps something more, hangs before Harry like a gem. He hesitates, wondering what path taking it would place him on. He hopes the strangeness and misery of that morning has led him to something more wonderful than he can imagine.

∞ ∞ ∞

The heavens have dressed in their finest diamonds for tonight, glittering in all their natural glory. Harry is struck dumb for a moment, boots in the snow, staring up at the bits of pinpricked sky between the branches of the copse. 

Draco rushes ahead of him, to where the land meets the river, a great, frozen giant that lies sleeping. “Come on!” He urges, and Harry carefully steps on the ice, shuffling along it as Draco sprints ahead. “Isn’t this exciting…? Whoa!” Draco exclaims, arms pinwheeling, and he slips, falling backward.

“Draco!” Harry runs as fast as he can across the ice, which isn’t that fast. Draco groans loudly from the ground, and it takes Harry a minute to realize he’s just being melodramatic. “Pfft, you’re fine.”

“No,” Draco winces, clutching his back. “No, I’m afraid I can’t walk anymore. Come down to where I am.”

“It’s cold,” Harry states, rather obviously.

“Come _here_.” Draco reaches up to tug at the end of Harry’s red scarf. Harry sighs heavily but joins him, lying faceup on the cold, hard surface. The chill seeps into his coat, but he barely notices.

The sky is infinite, sprinkled in the white, lilac, and blue of the pale stars, arranged in their cosmic dance. It’s silent, save for the twin puffs of breath that paint the air with mist and the distant, faint roar of the highway. A knot that he didn’t know he had untangles deep within Harry.

“My mother used to tell me that the stars made music,” Draco says softly, and Harry turns to look at him. His upward gaze is as dark as the night. “Only the pure of the heart can hear it, in total silence.”

“I’m not pure of heart,” Harry mutters, but Draco doesn’t reply. He’s listening with his eyes closed.

Cosmic music is too magical a concept for Harry to accept, but he humors Draco’s words for a moment, watching the heavens like a rapt audience member. For a moment, he fools himself, and imagines a stringed symphony playing in a silver-fretted chamber.

One page of the journal is dedicated to this night. _“My mother used to tell me that the stars made music.”_

∞ ∞ ∞

A cassette mix plays softly in the background of the long drive back to Ashfell. Draco insisted on playing it, but he’s since fallen asleep, pale face bent towards his jacket, soft lips parted. Harry has never heard music like it before, something like rock, but atmospheric. It’s nothing he can hum along to, but he finds himself enjoying it, and makes a mental note to ask Draco what it is later. 

They arrive back at Draco’s just as morning begins to trundle along in full swing, the streets filling with commuters and parents taking their kids to school. The noise of cars replaces the sound of the cassette tape as Harry takes it out of the console, then rests a hand on Draco’s shoulder. “Hey. We’re here.”

Draco’s hand reaches absentmindedly for Harry’s – whether to push it off or hold it is unclear, and he comes to full consciousness before Harry can tell. “Oh…hi.” Draco pulls his hand away and blinks in the sun. “Christ, I’m tired,” He mutters, stretching, and the green jacket slides off his chest. “Do you have work today?”

“No.” Saturday, o sweet reprieve.

“Can I come over to yours?” Draco murmurs, silver eyes half closed. “To sleep?” And there it is again, but only now does Harry register it, the blatant advance that borders on romantic. Yet there is no love, no lust, that blossoms between them. If Draco had been a woman, Harry would have kissed her beneath the light of the stars. But Draco’s a man, unusual though he may be, and Harry seizes this friendly question with all the strength he can muster. He wants to know him.

“Okay. Yeah, that’s fine.”

“M’kay. I’ll just go grab some stuff. Wait here.” Draco opens the door, leaves his jacket on the seat.

“You think I’m going to leave?” Harry asks teasingly.

Draco only laughs and closes the door.

Harry leans his head back against the seat. He’s tired, too – he hasn’t stayed up all night in a long time. Not since high school, which he doesn’t want to remember. Those five years are a blur, mostly, and Harry wants to keep it that way.

Someone’s staring at him.

Harry looks through the passenger window. A girl stands a little way down the sidewalk, glancing from his car to Draco’s apartment building. Her black hair is chopped to her shoulders, dark, thin eyes ringed with eyeliner. Dressed in all black, from the overcoat to her boots, she resembles a crow, eyeing Harry beadily, suspiciously.

Harry doesn’t recognize her at all. He looks away, uncomfortable, and when he glances at the sidewalk again, she’s gone. He hopes Draco gets back soon.


	2. jagged edge of misery

The vinyl crackles for what feels to be the last time. Harry sits on the edge of his bed, tears streaming down his face. The soft piano, Billie Holiday’s gentle vocals, evokes memories of countless candlelit evenings, Draco’s arms around his neck, head resting on his shoulder.

Harry lets out a broken sob, clutching his shoulders. This wasn’t how their great adventure was supposed to end, with a drunken argument and a void instead of a goodbye. “How could you leave me?” He whispers, but Draco is too far away to hear, too oblivious and cruel. How can the hands that held him in the dark push him to the ground? How can the lips that brushed over every inch of his skin tear him apart so?

“Blue moon…you saw me standing alone, without a dream in my heart, without a love of my own.”

The voice from the record player reminds him of Draco’s when he sung this song, just under his breath, an octave lower. Harry abruptly takes the needle off, presses the stop button. Relief will come. Relief will come.

He takes the pills, and artificial exhaustion overcomes him, soaking like shadow into his eyes. Harry leaves the top button of his red silk pajamas undone, crawling into bed just as sleep dims his mind.

Relief will come, and it does, in the shape of two people. One of them drums his fingers on the steering wheel, humming some tuneless melody as they drive along in a white van filled with equipment. His colleague, a young woman whose Doc Martens are propped up on the dashboard, makes a noise of annoyance.

“Can you shut up? I’m too tired for that shit.”

“I thought late night jobs were your forte,” The young man replies, running a hand through his auburn curls.

“Singing’s obviously not _your_ forte,” She snaps back, talking around a cherry lollipop. “You’re making my ears bleed.”

“Humming is not singing, Pansy dear.”

“Technicalities. Hey. Hey, hey,” says Pansy, rapidly thwacking her colleague’s arm. “There it is.”

“First of all, ow. Second, yes, I see it,” The young man grumbles, and turns the wheel with one hand.

It takes quite a bit of time and hassle to lug the computer, the monitor, the cooler, and the electrode helmet, perched on the man’s head, all the way up to Harry Potter’s apartment. Pansy is panting when she unlocks the door, lugging a dolly with most of their equipment. “Jesus _fuck_ ,” She proclaims, flopping onto an armchair in the living room.

“Language,” The man chides. “There are young ears nearby.”

“Fuck off, Justin.” Pansy glances at Harry, fast asleep, round glasses still on his face. “Isn’t he, like, fifty?”

“Thirty-six,” Justin corrects. He leans over, takes off the glasses, and sets them on the nightstand before starting to set up all the equipment.

“What respectable thirty-six-year-old sleeps on a pullout couch?” Pansy scoffs.

Justin raises an eyebrow as the glow of the monitor turns his bronze skin pale. “Don’t _you_ sleep on a pullout couch?”

Pansy tosses her hair over her shoulder, though it’s not long enough to have the desired effect. “I have ten years to catch up.”

“Whatever you say.” Justin leans over Harry again, slipping the electrode helmet over his head, then plugging it into the extension cord. “Pansy, make yourself useful, won’t you? Check the CPU while I’m setting this up.”

Pansy sighs, but she rises to do her job. “Alright.”

Blue and red dots flicker on the surface of the helmet. Justin flicks on a few switches, then steps over the wires back to his monitor and keyboard. He types in a few commands, hits enter.

“He’s in.”

∞ ∞ ∞

Harry wakes in what he can’t be sure is a dream or a memory, or both. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, the record nearby skipping. “Blue moo – blue moo – blue moo…” Harry turns to look out the window, but before he takes in the view, he’s sitting in his best friends’ living room.

The scent of marijuana lingers in the worn carpet, not quite overtaken by the scent of Hermione’s new potted orchids. She and her husband, Ron, sit on opposite sides of the living room, her folding laundry and him petting the fat, grizzled corgi on his lap as Harry speaks.

“I wish he’d talk to me. Just _once_ , that’s all I need to make things right.”

“Man, I told you this guy was an asshole,” Ron says, shaking his head, and Hermione shoots him a glare.

“Not helping, sweetheart,” She scolds him.

“Well, maybe you’re right,” Harry says miserably from the carpet. “I haven’t even told you what happened yesterday.” He sighs. Hermione and Ron wait on the edge of their seats – metaphorically, that is. Ron sits back comfortably in his reclined armchair, canned beer in hand. “I bought him an early present, for Valentine’s Day. I was going to go to the café and give it to him, with an apology.”

Harry found a delicate, silver ear clasp in the shape of a dragon at a thrift shop in downtown Ashfell, its eyes set with sapphires. The piece was odd and beautiful; Harry felt sure that Draco would love it. He had it wrapped in a pale green box lined with cheap velvet.

“But when I got there…He was with this girl that I’d never seen before. And…” A lump grows in Harry’s throat at the memory, whose edges are already bleeding into this one. “He acted like he didn’t recognize me.”

Pink hair stands out against the warm reds, greens, and browns of The Raven and the Mushroom. Draco practically lounges against the cash register as he takes people’s orders. It’s a slow day today, and Harry walks right up to him in the middle of his shift, box in hand.

“Hey.”

“Good afternoon, what can I get for you?” Draco flashes a smile – Harry feels like he’s been punched in the stomach. Draco’s upbeat tone, his manufactured positivity, is a mask he wears at his job. But not with Harry. Never with Harry.

“Um…” Harry looks Draco directly in the eyes, but there’s not a smidge of recognition. Damn, he’s good. “I…”

“Pansy!” Draco’s face brightens, and there it is, the real joy, sparkling silver eyes, but it’s not meant for him. Harry watches in dismay as a girl with short, dark hair flounces behind the counter, and flings her arms around Draco’s neck. She’s turned away from him, but her lips touch Draco’s cheek. “Darling…”

Harry doesn’t hear the rest. Darling, darling, darling. Draco used to call me that. The sounds of the café fade away, a loud ringing in his ears. He watches as Draco, his boyfriend, his lover, his bright-eyed angel, takes this young girl by the waist to greet her.

No. _No._ How could you do this to me? HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME.

“I’m sorry.” Hermione’s hand soothingly rubs Harry’s arm. Her curly hair spills over her shoulders, framing a deep brown face furrowed with worry. “That’s awful.”

Ron clears his throat, clear blue eyes meeting his wife’s. “Maybe we should…”

“No,” Hermione says firmly. “No. We said we wouldn’t.”

Harry glances between them in confusion. “Wouldn’t what?”

Hermione’s lips press into a thin line. She grabs her basket of finished laundry and heads up the stairs. Ron doesn’t meet Harry’s eyes, scratching the ears of their dog.

“Wouldn’t _what_?”

“‘Mione…” Ron starts when his wife comes back down. “I think we should tell him. He’s an adult; he can handle it.”

Hermione raises an eyebrow. “Can he?”

“Yes, I can,” Harry says recklessly. “Show me. Tell me. What?”

Ron exchanges a look with Hermione. She mutters something under her breath and goes back upstairs, obviously wanting no part in this. The corgi in Ron’s lap lets out an excited bark, sensing a change in the air. “Go on, Pig,” Ron says genially, pushing the dog onto the floor. It lands with a happy thump and goes scurrying into the kitchen. “Come here.”

Ron reaches over to a narrow chest of drawers and opens the top one. He retrieves a manila-colored card, inked with neat, black type. He hands it wordlessly to Harry.

_Dear Mr. and Mrs. Weasley-Granger,_

_Draco Malfoy has had Harry Potter erased from his memory. Please do not mention this to either individual._

Harry frowns and flips the card over, in search of an explanation, but there are only more lines of type. An address, for a place called Lockhart Inc.

“What is this?” Harry looks at the front again, reading and rereading the strange message. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“Uh…no, I don’t think so.” Ron absentmindedly scratches his gingery beard. Harry watches him for any glimmer in his eyes, a twitch in his lips, but there’s no tell. “I mean, Draco didn’t recognize you, right?”

“But…” Harry swallows. He prints the address into his mind. Impossible.

This is impossible.

An electronic beep sounds, and Harry is transported to a street in downtown Ashfell, to a business so tiny and unassuming that it’s no surprise he’s never seen it before. Lockhart Inc, in gold letters, shines in the middle of the upper window. The manila card in his pocket, Harry walks inside.

The smell of sickly, grandmotherly perfume and hand sanitizer greets Harry as he meanders into a waiting room, walls paneled with wood and lined with old, green chairs. A few people sit, faces lined with regret and despair, each holding a box, a pillowcase, or a garbage bag full of various items, from clothes to stuffed animals to trophies. Harry turns away from them to the receptionist’s desk at the end of the room. The receptionist, a young woman with long, wavy blond hair and a dreamy expression, holds a phone to her ear.

“Of course, we can fit you in on the twentieth of March.” She spots Harry, gives him a brief smile, and flips through a calendar as he approaches. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Thank you so much, Ms. Doolittle. Goodbye.” The receptionist tosses back a sheet of hair, revealing bright purple and green earrings made of seaglass, and a name tag: Luna Lovegood. “Yes, how may I help you?”

“Erm…” Unsure of what else to do or say, Harry slips the card from his pocket, then slides it across the counter.

Luna recognizes it immediately, pale blue eyes widening. “Oh, my.” She takes the card, frowning. “I assume you are Mr. Potter?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, my,” She says again, fretting. “Here, come with me. I’ll take you to see Dr. Patil.”

Lockhart’s facilities are narrow and messy. Luna, white lab coat swishing in her wake, takes up most of the hallway despite her slender frame. She knocks at the door of an office labeled with a bronze plaque: Dr. Padma Patil.

“Doctor?” Luna opens the door and pokes her head in.

“Yes, Lovegood?” The voice within is stern and female, tinged with an Indian accent. Luna opens the door all the way, beckoning Harry inside.

“This is Harry Potter,” Luna says, and Harry feels a bit awkward as she presents him with a sweep of her arm like she might an item at an auction. “He’s one of our…compromised.”

Dr. Patil raises her brows. Her beringed hands are folded on her desk, scattered with documents, folders, photographs, and a cassette player. Despite the disarray of her workspace, the doctor herself has rigid posture, a neat black bun, and a demeanor that lets Harry know that she means business. “That is unfortunate. Please, have a seat, Mr. Potter.”

Harry takes the chair in front of her desk. Luna, behind him, lays the card neatly upon the haphazard piles. She stands back, expectant.

“Oh – you can go, Lovegood,” says Patil, waving her off. “Thank you.”

When Luna leaves, Patil’s fingers gingerly touch the card, her dark eyes regretful. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Potter; you shouldn’t have seen this.”

“Right, I got that impression. So, what is this…memory erasure?” Harry feels silly even saying it aloud. “Sounds like science fiction.”

“Well, in this glorious twenty-first century,” Patil says, deadpan, “Such a thing is very real. Our facility is the only one in the United States that provides the service.”

“What exactly is the service?”

“We provide…” Patil pauses, searching for the precise words. “A fresh start. A new beginning. A relative dies, we break up with a friend, a lover,” She touches the card, “And instead of dealing with the emotional fallout, we can simply erase them.”

“Erase them?” Harry echoes. “They’re just…gone? Poof?”

Patil nods solemnly. “Poof.”

“So, what does this have to do with Draco?” Even his name sends tremors through his being. The boy by the shore. The young man on a Ferris wheel. The student body president in a school blazer.

“Draco Malfoy. Yes, I remember his case. Suffice to say that Mr. Malfoy was not happy in his current relationship.” Patil says the sentence with a stale empathy, as if she’s said versions of it many times before. “He wanted a way out.”

“He wanted a way out,” Harry repeats, later, in the Weasley-Granger kitchen, the three adults washing the remnants of their dinner. “An easy way out, it seems like. Instead of just _talking_ to me, he fucking _erased_ me. I mean, I…” He stammers, still reeling. “What am I supposed to with that? He’s given me nothing to work with.”

“Maybe you should see this as an opportunity,” Hermione remarks, passing him a soapy plate. “To make a clean break.”

“Also, if he’s that willing to cut you out, he’s probably not worth it in the first place,” Ron chimes in, towel in hand.

Harry glares at his best friend. “You know I’m still in love with him, right?”

Ron lets out a heavy sigh. “Yeah, I know, man. I’m really sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Harry adjusts his glasses with a damp hand and continues rinsing.

Night falls softer than reality, which hits him in the chest over and over again. Harry sits in his still-damaged car, tears streaming down his cheeks, knuckles clenched on the steering wheel. “Why? Why?” He sobs, slamming his forehead on the wheel, the jagged edge of misery cutting him deeper than Draco’s words ever could.

How could you do this to me? After everything we’ve been through?

∞ ∞ ∞

The clack-clack-clacking of Justin’s keyboard is all that fills the silence. He monitors Harry’s brain activity closely, entering lines of code and deleting others. Pansy hasn’t needed to check the connections in a while, and she sits upside down in the armchair, dark hair dangling towards the floor.

“It’s so quiet,” She complains.

Justin deletes a clump of neurons before replying. “Do you want me to sing?”

“Hell, no.” Her eyes rest on an object on the other side of the living room. “I noticed he’s got a record player. And a shelf full of sleeves.”

“Congratulations, you have eyes.”

“If we touch his stuff and put it back, he won’t mind,” Pansy decides, and promptly turns herself to land on the wooden floor. Her boots clomp as she strides to the shelf and begins flipping through the music. “Old, old, boring, old – ew, pop – derivative, boring, old…aha!” Pansy exclaims triumphantly, sliding out a white vinyl sleeve, stenciled with a horse. “That’s the ticket. Perhaps Harry’s music taste isn’t as godawful as I thought.”

“Says the woman who refuses to listen to Nirvana,” Justin replies, without looking up.

“They’re too popular,” Pansy says with a sniff.

“And the Deftones aren’t?” Justin says skeptically. Pansy doesn’t deem to reply and moves the needle carefully onto the record.

Wavering guitar chords ring out into the tiny apartment. Pansy hums along and wanders into the kitchen.

“Oh, by the way, Luna’s coming over tonight,” Justin mentions. Pansy immediately runs back, poking her grimace into the living room.

“Um, pardon me? I thought you said little miss fairy queen is coming over tonight.”

“Sure did. And I’m going to assume you meant ‘fairy queen’ as a compliment.” Justin reaches next to his workspace for the cooler latch, and dips into it for an ice-cold can of beer. He clicks it open with one hand and maneuvers the mouse with the other. “I thought you liked Luna.”

“She’s interesting to have around,” Pansy admits. “She doesn’t like me, though.”

Justin raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Gee, I wonder why.”

“Well, if you’re bringing Luna, maybe I ought to bring _my_ boyfriend,” Pansy says smugly. She reaches for a beer as well, shiny black nails tapping on the metal. “I have a boyfriend now, by the way.”

Justin rolls his eyes. “Yes, so I’ve heard. About a million times now.”

“He’s very pretty and has good taste in music. I think you’d like him.” Pansy pops the can and takes a sip. “You’d better not try to steal him.”

“Just because I’m bi doesn’t mean I throw myself at every man I see. I adore Luna, if you must know.”

“She’s not _that_ great,” Pansy says disdainfully.

“That’s my girlfriend you’re talking about.” It’s the closest Justin has gotten to being angry tonight so far, but he rarely gets angry. His hazel glare above the monitor isn’t very threatening.

“There’s no spark between youse,” Pansy continues as if she hadn’t heard him.

Justin hums along to the rock song, which he actually quite enjoys. “I am not listening to you anymore. La la la, doing my job here.”

Pansy lets out a belch. “Good for you, Finch-Fletchley. You get a medal.”

On the pullout couch, Harry slumbers, his mind wrought with memory. Years and years of it, tearing away from his cortex, and dissolving into nothingness.


	3. any traces of him

Revenge’s taste is unbearably bitter in his mouth as Harry wanders aimlessly, briskly through his apartment, filling a black garbage bag with memories. He replays the conversation he had with Dr. Padma Patil over and over in his mind, her voice reverberating within the thin plaster walls.

“To begin the process, you must collect memorabilia related to Draco. Gifts you bought for him, gifts he bought for you…”

The pale green velvet box, holding the silver clasp, disappears into the bag. A makeup palette opened only once. A mug painted with their caricatures. A roaring dragon handmade from copper wire.

“Photos, drawings, any visual records of him…”

Draco posing in front of the Eiffel Tower, leaning against a maple tree, catching snowflakes on his tongue. Pictures of them together, in Ashfell, in Paris, in the towns around England. An amateur charcoal etching of him, only barely capturing his likeness. Polaroids in a green box, of the hidden Draco, dressed in lace, smirking, face half-buried in the sheets. A single photo of the Draco Harry knew in high school, high ponytail pulled back from a disgruntled expression.

“Any of his clothes or possessions…”

A single green leather glove. More dragon sculptures, of wire and glazed clay, handled with care. A toothbrush. A half-full bottle of cologne. A box of red hair dye. A heating pad. A scarf striped in their school colors, green and gold. A green plastic comb. 

“Anything related to him at all, really.”

Harry is hesitant to get rid of the dozen vinyls of Draco’s favorite albums, which will no doubt stand out amidst his own collection of jazz and old pop. He tosses the shoegaze and hard metal but can’t bear to part with _White Pony_. 

“We will use these objects to create a map of him in your mind. When you wake, all traces of his existence will be gone from your home, and you’ll be completely free of Draco Malfoy.”

All this and more did Harry scrape from the corners of his apartment, and fills two bulging, plastic garbage bags. As he stands in the doorway of the apartment, he looks back at the kitchen, the living room, the bathroom. Nothing appears to have changed. But Harry feels it, the emptiness that gnaws at his heart, soon to be replaced by an even wider void.

This is necessary, he tells himself. He doesn’t need a photo to imagine Draco, at least having the decently to wear regret as he stands before him. “You did this to me first,” Harry spits, though in the real memory, he hadn’t spoken aloud. “This is your fault. I’m taking revenge on you. How does that feel?” The phantom Draco does not reply. His silver eyes are filled with glimmering sadness.

At Lockhart, the receptionist, Luna Lovegood, beams up at Harry. Today, her earrings are made of painted clay mushrooms. “Hello, Mr. Potter. How are you this morning?”

“Fine,” Harry lies, dropping the heavy bags by the desk. His arms ache terribly. “Can we start?”

“Yes, of course. I’ll take you to see Dr. Patil right now.” Luna’s gaze is compassionate as she stands, a clipboard in hand, and gestures for Harry to follow.

As they navigate the narrow hallway, they encounter a young man with swooping auburn curls, golden-framed glasses, and a white lab coat over his yellow sweater. He stands to the side to let them pass, and says to Luna, “Hey, lovely.”

“I’m _working_ ,” She tuts, flustered as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Mr. Potter.” The young man shoots Harry an almost flirty grin in greeting, and he looks away, too knee-deep in his own misery to care.

Still blushing, Luna wordlessly opens the door to the doctor’s office, and gestures for Harry to enter.

Dr. Padma Patil, expression serious as ever, leads Harry to a round table away from her desk, where she’s set up a notepad and a voice recorder. “Please, have a seat,” She says, and Harry sits across from her, leaving the garbage bags on the floor. “I need you to tell me all you can about Draco Malfoy,” She instructs, and even the brief mention of his name sends poisoned spikes afresh through Harry’s chest. Dr. Patil slides over a manila-colored card, where a phrase has been typed out. “Please recite this with the blanks filled in when I hit record. Then, I’ll ask you some prompting questions. Answer them as fully as you can.”

Harry nods in understanding. Dr. Patil presses the record button.

“My name is Harry James Potter, and I am here to erase Draco Narcissa Malfoy.”

“When did you first meet Draco?”

High school, soccer field, autumn dew. Long legs and lip gloss and a voice that commanded attention. Later there was anger, frustration, any slivers of friendship snatched away in lieu of an inner struggle that Harry learned about years after.

But perhaps that was the first time he met Isabelle. Draco, he ran into on the beach, all pale lashes and blustery limbs, hair the color of squeezed limes. He was hardly recognizable.

Halfway through his rambling, painful account, Harry is interrupted by an employee coming in to grab a stack of files. He barely glimpses her face, only the top of her jet-black hair as she mutters, “Sorry, ‘scuse me.”

When the interview is finished, the scene melts, and Harry sits in a chair similar to a dentists’ in a smaller room, lined on two sides with all sorts of equipment; mostly computer screens and dials and other things Harry can’t name. Dr. Patil straps a blood pressure monitor to his arm.

“So, what we’ll be doing now is creating a map of your brain with the objects you’ve given us,” Dr. Patil says as she squeezes the bulb, and the strap tightens around his arm. “Justin Finch-Fletchley will create the map and use it to do the erasing tonight.” She gestures to a young man standing just behind her at a computer, and Harry sees that it’s the same one he and Luna ran into earlier. Justin gives a friendly wave.

“Is there…” Harry feels a little stupid asking, but he presses on, “Is there any chance of brain damage?”

“Ah, well,” Dr. Patil purses her lips as she undoes the Velcro strap, “Technically the erasing procedure _is_ brain damage. There’s no real harm done,” She assures him, “You’ll be in a little pain tomorrow morning, but nothing worse than a hangover.”

“Are we ready?” Justin grins, nimbly pulling over a wheeled stool and plopping down on it while opening one of Harry’s garbage bags. Dr. Patil nods, reaching over Harry’s head, and fits a steel dome just above him. Justin moves a small table in front of Harry, reaches into the bag, and puts an object on the table.

A snow globe holding a miniature Big Ben, from their trip to London.

“Should I talk about it, or…?”

“Nah, we’re just getting emotional readouts,” Justin replies casually, and swiftly replaces the snow globe with a couple of subtly provocative Polaroids. Harry blushes without meaning to. “Focus on the memories evoked with each object, got it?”

Draco’s laughter, shouts of disbelief, derisive scoffs, echo through Harry’s head. He feels the ghost of his pale hands, his lips, trailing mocking paths all over his skin. Do you still want me? He seems to ask, Even though I no longer recognize you?

Harry tells himself firmly that he doesn’t want Draco. And he certainly won’t when he does the erasing.

Then Harry’s walking into the room full of screens, dressed in red silk pajamas. He glances at Dr. Patil, Justin, and - his brain short-circuits - himself, wearing a green sweater and jeans, watching the objects as Justin places them on the table.

“There are two of me,” He says, and no one seems to notice. “How can I be _here_ but also be…” Harry trails off, realizing. “I’m in my head, aren’t I? Have I been here this whole time?”

Dr. Patil finally seems to notice him, and she looks about the room. “Yes, this looks about right. We’re in your most recent memories, I’d say.”

“Oh.” Harry feels lightheaded, but he does his best to roll with it. It’s started, he thinks, this is it. In a few hours, Draco will be gone.

**Hm, I’m not wiping as clean as I’d like to.**

Harry hears Justin’s voice, echoing about the room. He glances at him, but the young man slouches, typing away, mouth not moving.

**Check the processor for me, would you? Kick it up a notch.**

Harry curiously looks upwards, then back down to the scene. The Justin Finch-Fletchley in Harry’s head still isn’t speaking, concentrating as he places a painted clay dragon on the table. Draco loved making them.

“Hello, Mr. Potter.” Luna smiles dreamily, leaning against the receptionist’s table that has somehow squeezed itself into the small room. “How are you this morning?”

The garbage bags multiply on the floor, some of them overturning others, spilling photographs, gifts, and clothes. Harry stumbles back, but the Other Harry in the chair makes no move, expression no more worried than it already was. “What’s happening to me?” Harry cries as objects rise to his chest.

Dr. Patil, her head poking out of the pile, smiles sympathetically. “You’ll be just fine, Mr. Potter. It’s not yourself you should be worried about.”

Harry’s lungs are filling with memories. Eyes the color of an overcast sky sink beneath the surface. Draco’s pale hand reaches out; Harry, callous, doesn’t take it.

∞ ∞ ∞

Pansy turns the knob, and the monitor hums with increased power. “Gotcha!” Justin exclaims triumphantly. The screen shows a multilayered diagram of a brain, covered in green splotches; as he taps a key, one of them turns red. “One down, about a gazillion to go.”

“Thank you, Pansy, for getting on your hands and knees to help me out,” Pansy says in a high-pitched voice, scowling as she brushes off her skirt.

“I don’t sound like that,” Justin says, and a moment later, because he was raised against his will to be polite, “Thanks, Pansy.”

“No problem, Justikins,” Pansy simpers, ruffling his curls affectionately. Justin makes a face. “Anyway…since Luna’s coming, should I bring my boyfriend?”  
“This again?” Justin sighs. “It doesn’t matter to me, honestly.”

Pansy taps the toe of her boot against the wooden floor. “Don’t ya wanna know how I met him?”

Justin sighs, much more heavily and dramatically this time. “How’d you meet him, Pansy?”

∞ ∞ ∞

An electronic beep pierces the stillness. Harry sits in the near-dark, a single, weak lamp illuminating the journal in his lap. He’s been flipping through it, restlessly, bitterly muttering words of love and poetry. He almost wishes he could take them back.

The door to the apartment finally, _finally_ opens. Harry lets out a sigh as the pain of a headache throbs in his temples. He won’t be looking forward to this conversation.

“This is the last time I saw you,” He whispers.

Draco doesn’t hear him. He stumbles in, trembling legs in skinny black jeans, olive-green shirt partially unbuttoned. He’s flushed, pink cheeks and reddened chest, grey eyes ringed in red. Draco runs a shaking hand through his pale blue hair, though it’s already so mussed that it doesn’t make a difference.

“Hey…” Draco’s voice is hoarse. He stops to clear his throat. “Hey, love.” He manages to make his way across the room and collapses by Harry’s armchair. He reaches up, presumably to pull Harry in for a kiss, but Harry catches his wrist, glaring.

“Do you know what time it is?”

“Past my bedtime?” Draco asks, fluttering his lashes. The scent of whiskey coming from him is overpowering.

Harry’s grip tightens, thumb brushing against the soft skin of Draco’s wrist. “You’re drunk.”

“And…?” Draco playfully walks his fingers up Harry’s thigh. Harry bats his hand away.

“ _And_ I’m assuming you drove my car here.”

“Oh, yeah. Er, about that.” Draco grins sheepishly, and Harry waits, raising an expectant eyebrow. “I might have…accidentally…crashed it.”

“You _crashed_ it?” Harry yelps, and he nearly digs his nails into Draco’s flesh, but then he remembers everything Draco ever told him about his parents, and he lets go instead.

“Just a little! It’s just a scratch, just a tiny scratch.” Draco looks up, pleading, but Harry sees nothing of the Draco he knows in those bloodshot eyes. Pathetic. He much prefers him sober, which recently, is rarer than ever.

Harry struggles to keep from shouting. “You’re pa- you’re fucking irresponsible.”

“Look, I messed up,” Draco admits, a pale hand resting on Harry’s knee. “I’m…” He pauses, suppressing a hiccup. “Pardon. I’m really sorry. How can I make it up to you?” He tilts his head, and in the dim light, Harry glimpses a few reddish-purple spots on his neck, trailing down towards his collarbone.

Gently, Harry brushes his hand against the hickeys, and for a moment, Draco brightens, thinking he’s been forgiven. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?” He murmurs, stung.

Even through his alcohol-induced haze, Draco realizes. “Harry, I…” His fingers lace through Harry’s, but Harry tugs away immediately.

The thought of Draco, gorgeous, scathing Draco, in the arms of another, head tilted back in ecstasy as a faceless lover marks his skin… Harry tosses the journal onto the chair as he stands, fist clenched, eyes burning. “You can’t…” He tangles his fingers in his hair, distressed. “Christ, you’re bold, aren’t you? Coming in here, flashing your little affairs just to upset me…”

“Hey!” Draco stands, with difficulty. “Look, I’ve been lonely lately.”

“Have you?” Harry mutters bitterly. He catches his own reflection in a mirror hanging nearby, sagging shoulders, drooping eyes. Lonely, indeed.

“So what if I go out for a bit without you?” Draco says, and Harry turns, watching as Draco lets loose a tirade as he leans against the armchair. “I know how to have fun, unlike some people. And I…” He hiccups again, and pushes on, “I have _needs_. You of all people should know that. You haven’t touched me in weeks-”

“Yes, I have,” Harry insists.

“Fine. You haven’t _fucked_ me in weeks.” Draco stands up straight, accusing, stalking towards Harry as steadily as he possibly can. “I told you what I wanted when this all started. I need intimacy. I need _love_.” The last word is punctuated by a finger to the chest - Draco’s in his face now, eyes shining with tears. “When’s the last time you told me you loved me, Harry? When?”

“I…” For once, Harry’s at a loss. “I _do_ love you.” But the words ring hollow.

“You fucking…” Draco’s shaking with rage, and Harry sees one of his hands begin to raise, “ _Liar!_ ”

Before the blow can land, Harry catches his wrist once more, Draco’s momentum carrying them both to the wall. Harry pins his hand beneath his own, and Draco grows still, silver eyes still seething. They’re breathing heavily, bodies tense and close, and Harry knows what this could mean, but he keeps distance between their lips. Draco, however, tipsy and desperate, leans in.

“Stop.” Harry steps away. He can barely look at Draco, only pieces of him, bruised lips and shuddering breath, shaking hands and unbrushed hair. A shadow of his former self. “Don’t be such a nympho.”

The words slip out before he can stop them. Suddenly, Draco is more awake, his melting mercury eyes turning into cold steel. “A nympho?” He echoes, voice freezing over, though Harry notices the crack of emotion right before he dons a mask of indifference. “Is that all you think of me?”

“No. No, Draco, I’m sor-”

Too late, Draco whirls around, to the bathroom, and Harry can hear clattering as he gathers his things. “Draco!” He rushes in, but the bathroom is completely empty. More movement and rustling from the kitchen - Draco’s there, instead, and Harry finds him, two jackets over his arm, a key in his hand.

“Won’t be needing this,” Draco growls, slamming the key on the counter. The one to the apartment. Harry’s heart twists. Surely, he’s not leaving forev-

“Draco, please, we can-” Harry bursts into the hallway of the apartment complex, but he’s already gone. The hallway’s lights click off one by one with a sound like gunfire, and Harry’s vision grows darker, darker…

And then he’s in the Toyota, the gash in the metal not quite the farthest thing from his mind as he cruises next to Draco, a bag slung over his shoulder, angrily stalking the sidewalk. “Draco, love, I’m sorry. Let me take you home, at least.”

The February cold presses the sides of the car, making Harry shiver; he left without a coat. Draco shudders violently, his coat draped over his arm in his hurry. “Leave me alone,” He spits angrily.

Then, Harry realizes that it’s not just him that’s shaking, it’s the entire street, cracks in the pavement, nearby buildings crumbling, trees creaking and groaning before they fall over. “Please, Draco!” He cries urgently. “It’s all falling apart!” This could be my last chance, he thinks desperately. If I can fix this now, then…

But the future is unchangeable, and Draco keeps walking, unaffected by the world collapsing around him. Harry stops the car with a squeal of the brakes and jumps out, nearly stumbling on the trembling ground. Behind him, the very earth begins to fall away, revealing a tar-black void beneath it. Gasping, Harry scurries away from the edge, towards Draco.

For a moment, Draco turns around, and his eyes are clear, sober. He opens his mouth to say something.

Harry reaches for his arm, and Draco dissolves into smoke. Beneath his feet, the street opens its black maw and swallows him whole.

**He was this cute little thing, I couldn’t help myself.**

Harry, in the darkness, twists towards the sound. He recognizes that voice but can’t match it to a face. He feels tendrils of data, like tentacles brushing over him, inspecting his genes. No match - they leave him alone to purser paler prey.

**Uh, he was asleep.**

**Yeah, so? He was like Sleeping Beauty, or whatever.**

**I never thought I’d be saying this, but please go back to when you weren’t a hopeless romantic.**

Sleeping Beauty. Rose-cheeked princess snoring softly on pillows stuffed with down. Harry can’t quite match the image to anyone he knows, but it reminds him of someone he loves, falling just out of his grasp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, GoldFrostbite13 here! I hope you're enjoying the story so far. I'm planning to publish once a week or every two weeks, so stay patient for the next update :) thanks for reading!


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